


Deconsecrated

by genmitsu



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bars and Pubs, Drinking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genmitsu/pseuds/genmitsu
Summary: So what if Jim was still a cop, but Oswald was someone else and Jim ran into him in a bar?This is heavily inspired by Robin's Administrator look in "John Wick 3" film.---Cigarettes, always the cigarettes. They haunted Jim, never letting him go, and everything seemed to be permeated with cigarette smoke - his clothes, his morning coffee… Even the spring wind carried in the smell of lilacs soaked in that cigarette smoke. He had no chance of forgetting him, absolutely, inescapably, - no chance at all.





	Deconsecrated

**Author's Note:**

> It's a slightly revised draft of a story that I intend to take in a different direction, but I liked it too much to just scrap. Hope you enjoy!

 

 

Cigarettes, always the cigarettes. They haunted Jim, never letting him go, and everything seemed to be permeated with cigarette smoke - his clothes, his morning coffee… Even the spring wind carried in the smell of lilacs soaked in that cigarette smoke. He had no chance of forgetting him, absolutely, inescapably, - no chance at all.

He remembers it all as if through a fever haze. Another case, convoluted like God knows what, and he was looking for someone at the dive-bars - who was it, and what for? Everything’s obscured by the smoke of his cigarettes.

 

Late night, darkness, drizzling rain, and he desperately wants this bar to  _ not _ be it, to  _ not _ find the one he’s been looking for here, because then he’d have to do something, decide something, be active and shit… and Jim only wants a glass of beer and a good burger. This joint smells like it should have good burgers, and Jim already imagines what kind of burger he wants - a rye bread bun, with a slice of tomato and some crunchy lettuce. A beef patty, tender, juice oozing out and mixing with the slices of sharp-tasting onions. And beer, definitely something light and hoppy, to distract him, to make better this night that makes him feel so alone in this city.

What a life, Jim thinks, entering the bar, just a never-ending chase after yet another criminal, that’s the only thing I’m good for, needed for. Not even by the criminals - on the contrary, they would be glad if he dropped this altogether.

Self-condemnation and deprecation suddenly stop their fight for the dominance of him, and make a dead-set, and Jim has to blink a few times, because - because what he sees can’t be real. It just can’t.

There’s definitely some kind of demigod, or a demidevil behind the bar, no doubt. Features so sharp you could cut yourself, hair black like the night, short, and carefully styled, and catching purple highlights from the neon sign on the wall. Piercings. Fucking piercings everywhere the gaze falls. A piercing in his sharp eyebrow. Several in his ears. Two rings piercing the sensual lower lip, and Jim feels floor shift from under his feet when he sees just  _ how _ those lips smile at him - of course, only at him alone. He’s approaching the bar as if drawn by  a magnet to him, to this temptation personified, to this embodiment of seduction, who then raises a thin palm to his lips and takes a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke from his lips escapes just as Jim approaches, partially engulfing him, and Jim should probably take offence, but he only wants to moan something along the lines of “yes, please, do this again, and step on me if you wish”.

“What’s it gonna be?” asks that beauty, and his tone is as impertinent and relaxed as his manners are.

“Uh…” says Jim incredibly cleverly, trying to at least glance at the board with the tap numbers behind the barman, but his eyes capture him all too firmly. Light, seemingly green, and his eyelashes are sooty-black, and his eyes look even deeper with the smudges of eyeliner, as if they weren’t deep enough, as if Jim hasn’t been drowning in them without asking for salvation.

“I can rec number ten to you,” the barman nods to the board and Jim gets stuck on the tattoo on his neck. A tattoo. Fuck. “Blond ale ‘Hard Day’, a good starter.”

“Okay,” Jim finally finds his voice and drops onto the stool. He’s not going to the tables, oh no, that’s totally out of question and his control.

The barman grins and bites on his cigarette, turning for the taps. Jim watches him hungrily, feeling like a stalker or a maniac, because normal people just don’t stare at strangers like that, no matter how beautiful they are, and yet Jim is devouring him with his eyes.

But fuckity fuck, he’s got tattoos on his arms, Jim thinks, trailing them from the rolled-up shirt sleeves. Some pictures, some words, and he never got turned on by tattoos before, but here he is… On his neck, on his arms, where else? and what do they look like? and could he…

“Here,” the barman sets the glass in front of Jim. It’s cold, dripping with condensate and sparks of neon. Jim takes it as in a daze, and drinks without tasting it in the slightest.

“Take it easy, handsome,” the barman grins, taking another drag. “The night’s still young.”

Jim dies a little inside from this off-hand compliment, and stares into his glass. There’s only a couple gulps of beer left, when had he even drunk it all?

“You’re pretty quiet,” the barman comments, and Jim understands he’s been trying to stare into the beer to avoid staring too hard at this personification of sin in front of him. “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” Jim reacts, raising his eyes shyly. He’s talking to him, it’s impolite not to look at the person talking to you, right?

But oh my God, his eyes.

“You can unload, if you wanna. Barmen are like therapists, we take it to our graves,” and he grins at Jim again, those lips, oh fuck, oh fuck, and Jim can’t resist looking at this mouth, can’t hold back his raging imagination. What would it feel like, to kiss him like that? With those piercings?

“Nothing to unload, really,” Jim mumbles. “Tired from the job, it bleeds me dry,” and he gulps down the rest of his beer. “Rec me something else?”

“Stronger?” he asks, and turns for the taps when Jim nods. “Then pale ale for you. ‘Flemish Kiss’, with a little fresh tartness.”

Jim doesn’t really understand the words, but he accepts the glass, and drinks from it again, gulping it down.

“Dry indeed, I see,” the barman comments again. “What kind of job you do that does that?”

“Police,” Jim says, taking a few more gulps. “I’m a Gotham’s dog,” he grins, and what is this? He’s actually flirting with a stranger? Cracking jokes? It must be some kind of magical beer.

“Oh really?” that beauty raises his eyebrow, yeah, the one with the piercing. “Here on business?”

“Meh,” Jim waves his hand, and drinks more. “Looking for this guy. They say he frequents bars in the area.”

But he doesn’t want to talk about his job at all. He’d rather watch this face, those lips as they encircle the cigarette, those fingers, so slender and pretty and decorated with some rings. The beer has a fresh taste but it leaves him hot, and Jim’s already burning up inside from his own hellish fantasies. The thoughts are getting more and more obscene, and fuck if he can tame them. Jim drinks, drinks, trying to drown them, but to no avail. He wants to trail all of those tattoos, with his lips and his tongue, find out where they end…

“One more?” the barman grins at him. “Knew cops could drink a lot, but I didn’t expect the likes of you among them.”

“The likes of me?” Jim asks, and shakes his head. “Gimme something new. What do  _ you  _ like?” he asks again, feeling bolder.

“The likes of pretty blondes,” the barman grins at him and takes a contemplative drag. “What do I like, you ask? I like it stronger, baby. Something along the lines of ‘Double penetration’.”

Jim coughs, hearing  _ that _ from those lips. No, don’t think about it, don’t think, don’t imagine, oh God… Double, what do you mean, double? As in spit roast, from two sides? Or does he mean taking two at once up his--

“But we haven’t gotten that in a long time, and I’d rather have something sweeter,” the barman continues, and watches Jim as if seizing him up. “I was always fond of dogs, by the way.”

And before Jim can fathom the meaning of his words, he leans over the bar and pulls Jim closer by his lapel to kiss him, and his lips are both nicotine-bitter and sweet like a dream come true. The piercings dig into Jim’s lips, and they’re like a barrier both of them have to breach while kissing, and Jim’s head spins - and not even from the alcohol.

“That hits the spot,” the barman says, distancing himself with a satisfied grin, and letting Jim go. Jim plops back down onto the stool - when had he stood up? - and tries to catch his breath, but he wants to keep losing it instead, when the two of them are…

“What if I want to have another?” Jim blurts out, unable to resist this desire, losing all shame and restraint. The barman raises his eyebrow at him, and his eyes are alight with devil fire.

“Well,” he looks at the clock on the wall, once again letting Jim catch a glimpse of his neck tattoos - some kind of wings on both sides? seriously, he looks like a fallen angel as it is. “My shift’s just over.”

He steps from behind the bar and Jim notices a slight limp as he walks to lock the door - definitely took a fall from Heaven - no, stop, seriously, how lame can you get? Jim watches him as if hypnotized, and he follows him further into the bar like a good dog on a leash.

Then it’s all as if through a haze. A darkened storage room, and he presses him to the wall, and kisses him again in a hurry, licking off that bitterness from his lips. Unbuttoned shirt, and a tattoo of an angel on his neck, reaching that tender little spot between the clavicles. A pierced nipple, fuck, and Jim groans just  _ seeing _ it, and his hands are hot and hungry, and the body he touches is so responsive that it’s impossible not to touch him more, not to  _ want _ more.

They smile into their kisses. The barman lets out a moan that almost sounds surprised, and Jim hurries to capitalize on the effect. The barman reciprocates just as eagerly, and Jim is melting and moaning under his touch in turn.

Hurried movements, grinding, and everything is both too intense and not enough, and the kisses they exchange burn them both to the core.

Jim climaxes like he has never done before, seeing actual fireworks before his eyes, and the sparkles are all green, green…

Gotta ask for his name, Jim thinks while he’s still able to do any thinking.

 

When he comes to at home, Jim thinks it was all a dream, a vivid dream, since he can’t recall what happened after, he can’t remember how he got home. Was it all even real?

Except his clothes are full of cigarette smoke.

Except his lips still sport the bruises from those piercings.

So it's real.  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I blame insane hotness of that look of the Administrator for everything. It should be illegal to make already attractive Robin that much hotter XD  
> Oh, and beer. I also blame craft beer XDD Real drinks, all those mentioned, I kid you not.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Tell me if you liked this little thing :)


End file.
